A Naughty Not-So-Fairy Tale
by Reactionary Response
Summary: Chastity would disappear as she would try to communicate through wet, open mouthed kisses: I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Thank you for every day, every moment. I'm sorry. The tears would track down her cheeks and flavor the marks he left against her neck. She would growl and moan and try to make up for everything she had taken away, all that he had sacrificed.


Feet slapped against the marble and the sound echoed along the rounded ceilings. The quiet _whap _of callouses and dirt against varnish and stone rang through the corridor, bounced against the windows of colored glass, and was finally swallowed by the thick library rugs. Blades of grass and pebbles mixed with swirls of orange and black Persian tapestry as she wiggled her toes into the shag. The sensations were vibrant, another to be cataloged in her growing list of experiences.

Of course, she had felt carpet before. Her tower had held carpets that changed with time, their textures becoming flattened and smooth like pine. Rapunzel had touched them every day, reveling in the spots of age. She thrilled in finding the differences in texture and the newness of something. In a world so small, with so much the same, wear and tear was a blessing. Mending those well-loved spots in the rugs (or her and mother's dresses, curtains, blankets, pillows, etc), gave her something to do. They filled the emptiness of routine days.

Sometimes Rapunzel missed the routine. The world outside the tower was filled with constant discovery, and her head would begin to throb. She wondered if her brain was in pain trying to hold all this new information. Then she would flop, as gracefully as a princess could, onto the floor and place her head between her knees. _Deep breathes_; she would remind herself, _just keep breathing._ In these moments of panic Rapunzel would close her eyes and imagine the dark of the tower. There she knew every nook and cranny. She was the one with knowledge, scoffing at Pascal for having forgotten the ending to the story, rolling her eyes at Mother's-Gothel's-ignorance of the pantry. There everything was hers, friendly, and familiar. Here she was always asking for explanations. She struggled to remember where her rooms were in the maze of the palace. Here Rapunzel couldn't have dinner without learning which fork to use or how to hold a teacup or how to make polite dinner conversation (which wasn't that just learning how to talk? And hadn't she already mastered that skill?).

The library was her only place of safety. Shelves that rose to the ceiling blocked out the rest of the world, giving her just a small window to look through. Comfort could easily be found among the books, a place she had sought information and explanation all her life. And yes, Rapunzel was slightly ashamed to admit that she hid there. For days. It wasn't as if she planned it, but sometimes she just needed to lock herself up again. Freedom could be just as choking as incarceration, you know.

But more than her embarrassment at being unable to handle her new experiences, she hated to see Eugene run after her. He would come flying down the passage way, his feet silent against the tile. It was easy to remember that he had been a thief as he stalked her like a prized jewel, wary of her awareness of him in his efforts to be invisible. Rapunzel would stop then, letting his arms come around her, his chest press against her back, the slow heat of his breath against her ear. He would coo and soothe and whisper, "Breathe, just keep breathing, Goldie." This, of course, only made things worse, since she was no longer gold or golden.

The guilt threatened to swallow her alive. Eugene had stayed in a sense of duty, maybe from his own feelings of guilt. Rapunzel could no longer protect herself without her hair. She was a mouse of a brunette, relying on the cat to keep her calm. His whole life had been put on hold for her and then devoted to her. He was babysitter for a princess who was not sure if she was a child or a woman. All these emotions constantly warred within her: the anguish of knowing that his life was hers, the need to understand, and the desire that swelled in the pit of her stomach as he held her.

Rapunzel would then repay him in ways that she only partially understood. She would turn to face him, running her fingers against his new silk shirt. They had rehearsed the blocking so much that sometimes she didn't even realize that her chest was pressed against his, that her fingers were now gripping the nape of his neck. For his part, he never complained for lack of variety. He would groan and place an innocent kiss against teared, salty lips. Chastity would disappear as she would try to communicate through wet, open mouthed kisses: _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Thank you for every day, every moment. I'm sorry. _The tears would track down her cheeks and flavor the marks he left against her neck. She would growl and moan and try to make up for everything she had taken away, all that he had sacrificed.

Today was different. His touch wasn't gentle or calming, and when he finally caught her it was not to create a sanctuary. Eugene whipped her around to face him, brown eyes defiant against green. She wanted to speak, to apologize again, and opened her mouth to do so but he immediately crushed himself against her. His tongue thrust into her mouth and began to explore as she struggled to keep up. Rapunzel wanted to begin her familiar refrain, but these kisses were too heated. He was angry passion, unapologetic. The fire bubbled from the deep ache in her thighs to roar into her heart. It was consuming, taking away her ability to talk, to think.

Suddenly she could feel the press of books at her back. The shelves shook ominously, but Eugene ignored them or didn't notice. He just continued to plunder her mouth, teeth almost clashing in the ferocity and fervor. His hands followed his mouth, skimming and teasing and pinching as he ripped open the ties of her corset. Rapunzel couldn't help the keening that came from the back of her throat when his rough palms brushed her breasts.

This aggression was new, sharp and fervent and scary. She couldn't help but try to record it all. There was the soft rippling of goose bumps across her exposed chest, the itch of the carpet as her toes curled, the smell of his hair as bit down sharply on her ear. The beginnings of a headache threatened with the onslaught of sensation and she tried to pull away. Then she tried to push him away. But his hands had locked around her waist and refused to let her loose even as she squirmed. Finally he growled in annoyance and through her kisses she wondered if he was done, if they were ending at their usual point of perfect sexual frustration.

To her utmost surprise his hands latched onto her rear and hoisted her until they were eye-level. Skirts were thrown up, to the side, and bunched to allow better access to her thighs as her legs wrapped around his waist. Then he began to roll against her, and even she could feel the heat emanating from her center. The friction was delicious and so instinctually satisfying she forgot to try to remember it. She forgot her own name and just said his.

"Eugene." The soft hum of her voice brought him from glazed to alert. Rapunzel saw the awareness there, the confidence, the tangible love. She couldn't stare it full in the face. All she wanted was to once more say she was sorry, to try to make up for what he had given up. Her avoidance seemed to anger him, and his next kiss was livid, all thrusting tongue and teeth as she clung and writhed against him.

Finally, _finally_ his hands went to his own belt buckle. The cloth _swshed _down his long legs and left him naked. She was tempted to giggle at his lack of underwear, but Rapunzel was too caught up in the feel of him. He was unabashed, completely unashamed. His fingers returned to her bottom, gripping hard enough to leave prints as he guided himself inside of her. She swore her eyes crossed, that there were stars. But he didn't let her leave. Eugene nipped her lip and pressed his forehead against hers. Their breathes mingled in bursts of heat, mixing together and stealing each other's. With each long, languorous stroke he whispered to her:

"I will _never_ be sorry."


End file.
